


In Its Own Way

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Friendship, Future Fic, Loss of Trust, M/M, Past Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-05 07:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11008668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: He had trusted him.Yuri had trusted him. No matter what, no matter how many times he forgot about him, no matter how many promises he broke, Yuri had always trusted Victor. He had been like family.But Yuri should have learned long ago that family didn't mean much after all.CH. 1 REWRITTEN!





	In Its Own Way

_ “At the time when it happens you do mean it.”  _ _  
_ _ G. Orwell, 1984 _

 

The palm connected with Yuri’s cheek. And in that first fraction of a second he idly thought how loud it was. The sharp burn of the slapped skin came a heartbeat later, and Yuri recoiled, his hand flying instinctively to his cheek. It burned, but the sting ran deeper, twisting his stomach even as his mind still reeled. 

Victor had  _ slapped  _ him. 

Yuri watched with wide eyes the older skater open his mouth, incredulous eyes looking between his hand and Yuri, like couldn’t quite believe he had done it. But he had. An insult too many on Yuuri’s account had escaped Yuri’s lips, making Victor’s eyes burn cold, and a flash of a second later his hand had whipped Yuri’s cheek. And Yuri could do nothing but stare, wide eyed, at Victor, while the former skater’s face paled further with each passing second. Yuri could see an almost tangible shade of regret in his eyes, but it did not register. 

Not until Victor spoke.

“Yuri…” he began, but the sound of his voice made Yuri’s head shake in reflex, snapping him out of his shock. He didn’t want to hear how fucking sorry Victor was. 

The older man opened his mouth to speak again, taking a step towards him. But Yuri was faster, stepping away from him while his head still shook. He didn’t have to think, his body was already turning on its heels and propelling its away from him in long strides that became fast, faster, until Yuri was sprinting down the corridor, and through the crowd which filled the lobby. A camera flashed, but Yuri didn’t give a single fuck. He needed to get away.

There was something pressing on his breastbone, tightening like a vice, and the only thing Yuri could think was that he needed to get the fuck away.

He could hear Victor call his name, and he sped up, running into the elevator and pressing the button with insistence. He could see the silver haired skater look through the crowded lobby. And see him. He started to make a beeline for the elevator, and Yuri pressed the button again and again. His heart was in his throat and he frantically kept punching the button, while the doors took their merry time closing.

Victor had nearly reached him, worried and contrite, but Yuri didn’t want to hear. No, he just needed to get the fuck away. Far away. Faintly he was aware that he was letting his lizard brain take over, but in that moment it didn’t fucking matter. His instincts had been the only thing that had made him get through his childhood, and he trusted them. 

Suddenly, mercifully, the doors snapped shut and the elevator lurched up. 

Yuri realised he was panting, breaths coming in short huffs, and heart beating fast fast fast. He leaned on the wall of the elevator, feeling his cheek burn, even as adrenaline pumped fast through his limbs. There was a knotting in his stomach that was familiar, and tasted like that particular mixture of bile and choked tears that come with disappointment.

Because he had trusted Victor. He had fucking trusted him, idolised him, shaped himself to surpass him. Fuck, on his first off season in Seniors, Yuri had even flown all the way to Japan because of him. It had been to make Victor keep his promise, but in the stuffy air of the elevator, while his lungs constricted at each breath and the urge for flight still thrummed in his muscles, Yuri could fucking admit it he had done so because he had missed the older skater. In a way Victor had been almost family for him.

He swallowed. Victor had been the closest thing he had to a fucking sibling. And while his cheek no longer burned, he could not forget the sound of it, the feeling of a palm connecting with his face. The knowledge that Victor had  _ slapped  _ him. Like a misbehaving child. 

Yuri found his throat too tight for breaths to go through. He had fucking slapped him. Like his mother had done over and over and over, and not just that. 

His fingers dug into his palms. He was  _ not  _ going to think about that. He couldn’t. Not without slipping down onto the floor and curling over his knees while he fucking fell apart. Once, only once he had reminisced it all, spilling it out of his chest and gifting Otabek with the knowledge of why, of  _ how  _ Yuri had gotten the eyes of a soldier. They had spoken only once about it. And Yuri knew he was never going to find the courage to do so again. It had been too pathetic, the mess he had reduced himself into.

He exhaled, trying to steady his breaths. Victor was not his mother. 

But he had slapped him. And well, Yuri thought bitterly, she had been family too, after all.

He let out a shaky breath just as the elevator doors chimed, opening. Yuri stepped out, feeling shaken to the core, and looked around himself, completely at loss. What fucking floor was he… oh, seventh. The golden plaque on the wall read the number which was two floors above his room. But before he could make his way back into the elevator he remembered Jean’s room was on this floor. 

There was a storm building inside his chest and his breaths kept hitching in his windpipe while he strode down the yellow carpet of the corridor, and towards Jean’s room. He knocked, and waited. 

His cheek still burned, and his teeth gnashed together, but he tried to keep his composure. 

With a faint click the door opened, and  Yuri watched as several emotions flickered on Jean’s face before settling into concern.

“What happened?” he asked, ushering him in. 

Jean raised his arms as if to embrace him, stopping at the last moment, looking uncertain. They hovered there, while Jean seemed to ponder whether to hug him. Yuri made the choice for him. With a shake of his head he pressed close to Jean, gripping his waist in a vice like grip, and burying his face against his chest. And a heartbeat later, Jean’s arms were finally around him, steady, warm. 

Only then, when he was pressed against Jean, did he start feeling the faint tremor which rippled under his skin. And the uncanny familiarity of the sensation made him burrow deeper in the embrace chasing the steadiness he normally felt. He hated feeling so weak, like everything inside him was swollen and ready to burst. 

And to his horror he felt the patch of Jean’s T-shirt under his cheek grow suspiciously wet. No. He shook his head, feeling more dampness against his cheek. No. No. He wasn’t crying. He  _ never  _ cried. Not when he lost, or when he won, or when everyone eventually left. 

Not when his mother had dropped him on his Grandfather’s doorstep and gradually vanished from his life. Not when he saw her pictures in the magazines. 

Yuri didn’t cry. He never did. The tears of strain when he would pull himself too far were the only kind Yuri had ever allowed himself. 

But the fabric underneath his face was growing wetter by the minute, and he could feel his nose grow stuffy while the taste of salt somehow made its way onto his tongue. 

It would have been hilarious if he didn’t feel so utterly mortified, and fucking pathetic. Victor had managed what everyone else in Yuri’s life had not been able to accomplish. The son of a bitch. A dry chuckle escaped his lips at the thought, and Jean’s arms tightened around him, strong and warm, and a fucking anchor while everything was flying off its hinges. 

There was curiosity, he could feel it, and after all this time he knew Jean enough to be sure he was dying to understand what the fuck was going on. Anyone would have, for that part. But he didn’t give a single fuck about the rest of the world. Jean was a category onto his own. He was perhaps the only person aside from his Grandfather Yuri could rely on. The only one who did not make him embarrassed about feeling small. Just for a heartbeat. He would bare his teeth later. He would make Victor pay for what he had done. Because no one, not one fucking person had managed to reduce Yuri into tears. Except Victor. And his mother. 

And for the second time that day Yuri had to remind himself  _ that _ was something he could not dwell. 

Slowly he untangled himself from Jean’s arms. In the sudden absence of Jean’s stalwart body around him, Yuri realised how wishful had his own thoughts been.  Because as he felt his damp cheeks dry in the mild air of Jean’s hotel room, Yuri didn’t feel strong, or dangerous. He was just hurt. 

And it was fucking wrong. 

He was the Russian Punk, the Ice Tiger, the fucking prodigy of figure skating. Yuri did not do  _ hurt _ . 

He just fucking didn’t.

His mouth opened before he even realised it, and he was blurting without preamble.

“Victor slapped me.”

_ “What?”  _ Jean’s head snapped up.

“I said something about Katsudon, I don’t even fucking remember. Something gross most likely. Anyway the fucker…” his voice grated like a string about to be broken, what the fuck? Not gonna happen. Nope. He cleared his throat, swallowing a lump and trudged on, glaring at himself “The fucker  _ slapped  _ me.”

Jean blinked twice, jaw tightening, before he snarled something in fast paced French. Yuri could see his nostrils flare, and his cheeks grow red in what was clearly anger. And a small part of him felt vindicated. Because Yuri may be failing at extracting his trademark rage at the moment, but his boyfriend was doing a good enough job for the both of them.

One moment Jean was swearing in his native language, and the next one he was pulling Yuri into another embrace. Only this one was not cautious, Jean was not holding him like he was broken china. No, this was a statement, it was Jean being pissed off on his behalf. And it made Yuri’s heart increase its pace, echoing loudly in his ears. It was good. It was safe.

It was over too soon.

A hesitant knock sounded on Jean’s door, and Yuri knew who it was. 

Something cold shivered down his spine and he stepped out of the embrace, moving towards the window, and nearly stumbling on the edge of the duvet. Even as he did it he realised how fucking pathetic he was, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near the door. Near Victor. 

He didn’t want to see him. 

His head was shaking, but at the moment it didn’t fucking matter. He was four years old once again, and the fear was something palpable, like the organza of the curtain he was gripping in his fingers, knuckles white as he clawed for support. For safety. And he knew all of it was wrong wrong wrong. But he could not control his body, he could not stop that old, deeply carved fear from shivering down his spine. 

Jean was looking at him in bewilderment, and he saw him torn between the door where another knock sounded, more insistent this time, and Yuri who was clutching the curtain in hands that were fucking shaking.

“You… you should get that.” he said with bravado, because he was four but he also wasn’t and the little pride he had left reared its head, demanding attention. Jean frowned, but he said.

“Okay.” and then moved towards the door, opening it barely enough to see the person on the other side.

“Is Yurio there?” he heard Victor ask.

“That’s none of your business, Nikiforov.” it was so strange to hear Jean’s voice turn so frosty, and Yuri swallowed. He heard Victor start to say something else, but Jean interrupted him before he even finished the first syllable “For your information his name is  _ Yuri.”  _ he told him, adding a perfunctory “Good night” before he loudly slammed the door shut.

“Did you just...?” Yuri asked, feeling his eyebrows climb into his hairline, and his eyes widen, the curtain slipping through his fingers in his bewilderment.

“He should be happy I didn’t slam the door into his nose.” Jean snarled angrily, curling his fingers into fists at his sides “That son of a bitch…”

“Fuck off, Leroy. Cursing is  _ my  _ thing.” Yuri protested weakly, blinking at the uncharacteristic swearing. Jean’s sombre expression suddenly broke into an amused grin and he chuckled. 

“Apologies,  _ ma princesse. _ ” Jean said in mock contrition, and Yuri felt his own lips curl into a small smile. But his boyfriend’s face turned serious once again, and Yuri watched him step closer. Gently he cupped Yuri’s cheek and spoke.

“I’m not a violent person, Yuri, but if that  _ tabarnak de con _ ever raises a finger on you I  _ swear... _ ” he said in the most serious voice he had ever heard him use, but Yuri didn’t let him finish. 

He pulled him in for a kiss. 

Because his lungs clenched when he saw his boyfriend’s rage on his behalf, and something warm swelled inside his chest. Yuri was not four years old. And he was not alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic should not have many chapters (at least I hope XD)
> 
> Many thanks to [NinjaMatty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaMatty/pseuds/NinjaMatty) for the Canadian insult! XD


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